


guided by my beating heart

by starblessed



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Fix-It, Gen, Greyjoys have the resiliency of cockroaches, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Stabbing, Theon Greyjoy Lives, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23258146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Waking up is the last thing he expects. A bit disappointing, really.Not in the least because he’s still impaled straight through.(In which Theon, to no one’s surprise more than his own, proves very good at surviving things people objectively should not survive.)
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy & Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 99





	guided by my beating heart

**Author's Note:**

> My Theonsa shipping ass literally can’t help itself. Read it as romantic? Platonic? Who cares, just go for it!!
> 
> While I still firmly believe Theon should have killed the night king before dying (or at least done a LITTLE MORE than just flop around on the ground like a fish) his death is a GREAT way to round off his story, concluding one of the only satisfying arcs in the eight season.
> 
> That said... what if we, like, didn’t kill Theon tho

Time slips through his fingers in the moments after the king of ice spears him through. In those hazy, half-conscious eternities, Theon Greyjoy is certain he’s died.

He’s imagined death a thousand times, in a thousand different forms, and none of them have ever felt like this. This… hurts less than he expected. After that initial burst of pain — not even agony, not when his standards have been set so high — it doesn't hurt at all, really. The cold fills him up, spreading from the ice spear through every vein, every limb, and it’s all he can feel. No pain. Just _cold_. He lands on his side, the snow cushioning like a blanket between his body and the frozen ground; a shuddering exhale escapes his mouth, and if it is his last breath, at least it’s a painless one.

But he doesn’t die. He doesn’t, and that is the inconceivable thing — because after all this time, Theon would welcome the god of Death like an old friend.

He has seen him before, looming in the shadows of the old cell. He’s tasted him in the blood flooding his mouth after yet another tooth is torn from its base, half-rotted from malnutrition already. He’s heard him echoed in the wails of dying girls, in the roar of soldiers in battle, in his own wordless agonies. Death has caressed him, leaving scars scattered along his body, like broken glass littering a polished floor. Death has reached inside and pulled everything he was out, leaving him hollow, fumbling in the dark to find those lost pieces again.

He still hasn’t pieced them all back together. That’s the saddest thing, he thinks in those hazy moments, all the life in his body bleeding out into the snow. He’ll never get the chance, now.

Not that it was ever possible, but he’d been _trying_. With every step, every breath, every loyalty declared and held to like a vice… it was all atonement for the sins of a dead man. The dead aren’t meant to come back to life, and it’s said they don’t come back whole. Theon knows this truth intimately. But fighting for something was a reason, a purpose, and it made him almost feel alive again.

Fighting to protect Bran Stark was loyalty, yes… but it was also his personal atonement.

 _You’re a good man, Theon._

The words echo in his head, a lullaby easing him down into darkness. He clings to them like a lifeline, a flame in the darkness. It was _exactly_ what Theon needed to hear. Exactly what it took to send him to his death without a moment of hesitation. Theon isn’t a fool; Ramsey tortured his dignity out of him, and much more besides, but he couldn’t take his memories. He's not too blind to see that whatever returned to Winterfell after all those years, wearing Bran’s face and speaking in his voice, is not really Bran Stark. He is not the boy who used to cling to Theon’s shoulders, shrieking with laughter; he’s not the child with a spark in his dark eyes, who reached for the sky and never stopped climbing. He is not the child who clung to his quiet dignity, but still pleaded, betrayal like an open wound across his face, as Theon claimed Winterfell for his own...

 _You’re a good man, Theon._ It’s redemption, but is it really forgiveness? Is there enough of Bran Stark left to forgive?

Better question — was there enough of Theon Greyjoy left to deserve it?

The cold bores through his armor, into his skin. Is that possible? So cold, it’s all so cold… he exhales, a metallic gurgle in the back of his throat causing him to spasm. The spear is still in him, but it does not hurt. The wight king has moved on, discarding him as yet another frozen corpse, and he is not afraid. The pain is nothing, but the cold…

Theon closes his eyes and whimpers. Gods, he doesn’t want to die in the cold.

It’s taking too long. He’s not aware of much around him, only the sound of battle far, far away. Somewhere beyond that, he can hear a woman singing — a crooning sea hymn in a language he no longer recognizes, but that resounds in his bones like old memory. No longer in control of his body, he feels, rather than makes himself spasm. A thin stream of blood trails from the side of his mouth.

When will the lights go out for good? When will the cold fade away?

Theon dozes, and in the sparse seconds of consciousness he wonders… but there is nothing to hold onto, and he feels himself fade.

In the last moment of awareness before the lights burn out, he hears a voice from above him, calling from somewhere far away. _Theon,_ it says, and caresses his face. _Theon…_

* * *

Waking up is the last thing he expects. A bit disappointing, really.

Not in the least because he’s still impaled straight through.

His first reaction is panic — a gurgle, a gasp, limbs spasming with adrenaline instead of energy. His hand twitches for the spear, but he is as good as paralyzed. Conscious, but unable to move; awake, but not alive.

“Theon, Theon —“

For a moment, he’s certain it’s the voice again, calling him back into darkness… but a cold hand snags his attention, forcing the panicked gaze to clear from his vision. Sansa’s face is snow-white, yet her eyes sparkle like blue diamonds; they brim with pure relief. Theon cannot remember the last time Lady Stark smiled. Even as a little girl, Sansa’s smiles were polite and restrained, showing no teeth and too little feeling. Now, she hardly ever does it at all. The sight of Sansa’s mouth pulled up, even as she echoes his name again, leaves him wondering if he has not died after all.

Then the pain hits, all at once — and the cold. He moans aloud, but is hardly aware of it. His veins have long since turned to ice, but only now that he is aware of the fact does it hurt; he cannot breathe, cannot think past the pain radiating through his entire body. The spear is still in him, straight through his chest, even if his armor has been cut away. He feels lighter, but not light enough. How can he die if this thing is still pinning him to the earth?

“C-can’t—“ His voice cuts off in another groan, hand twitching towards the spear again. Sansa hushes him, laying both hands atop his own — to reassure, he thinks fleetingly, before realizing she is holding him down.

“We cannot take it out now. You’ll bleed to death.”

He’s quite certain he’ll bleed to death _anyways,_ because impalement tends to do that. And the cold --- gods, it's so cold, can't she _feel it ---_

“You’re going to be alright. The maester says that once you have been moved again —“

“Moved?” There, at least. A word. With meaning behind it. It’s a greater achievement than incoherent moaning, even if the full-body shudder that wracks him a moment later somehow undercuts it.

For the first time, Theon becomes aware of his surroundings… and this is the greatest shock of all. Gone are the weirwood trees, the blood-stained snow and ring of corpses. Gone is the crowd of wights; gone is Bran, serene in his wheelchair as Death descends. They are in a hall, and it is crowded. People are weeping. People are bleeding. But they are alive.

Injured, but alive. The full realization of his own condition hits him all at once, like a blow to the head in sparring practice; he is floored and sent reeling, into a pain-stricken haze. The cold sweeps up and swallows him, stealing the question from his lips. All Theon can manage is a groan, staring up at Sansa as if she is the only thing between him and the abyss.

“How much does it hurt?” Her voice is focused, like ice beneath a layer of soft snow. Sansa is always at her best when given something to manage, and Theon’s prolonged survival appears to be her focus of the moment. When Theon can’t quite bring himself to reply — _quite a fucking lot, actually_ — in anything but a strangled moan, Sansa doesn’t wait for anything else. For a few brief seconds, she vanishes; when she returns, it is with a vial of amber liquid that tastes like cat piss when she forces it past Theon’s bloodstained lips.

Almost immediately, the currents of pain radiating from the spear in his chest fade away, going numb and distant. In a moment, his mind has gone the same way. The world blurs at the edges, rippling like water; when he tries to form words again, past still-chattering teeth, all he can manage is a slurred murmur.

Sansa’s hand moves to his jaw, his cheek, his face. “You’re going to be fine,” she says again — as if the more times she repeats it, the truer it must be. Is she reassuring him or herself? Her hand sweeps across his brow, smoothing away sweat-soaked curls — how can he _possibly_ be sweating, when everything is so bloody _cold?_ — and he catches a flash of agony in her gleaming eyes.

 _“You'll be fine,”_ he means to say. _“We both will. Haven’t we always come out fine before?”_

Except he does not even get the chance to lie, for in seconds, he is swept down into darkness once again. This time, the cold swallows him.

* * *

When he wakes again, it is to utter silence. The reflection of flames dance across the stone ceiling, casting the room in a hazy glow. Something is soft beneath him, a pillow cradling his head and a blanket pulled up past his waist. Theon’s first priority is checking to see if he’s still got a spear sticking out of him.

No spear. That’s probably a good thing.

He _is_ bound with a mass of bandages so thick that they may as well be a suit of armor. When he tries to move, he finds it impossible; even breathing is constricted, with how tightly the maester has bound him. Some oft-ignored common sense warns Theon that testing these precautions will lead to move trouble than they’re worth.

Instead, he goes still, lying back against the pillow and blinking up at the ceiling. Warmth trickles back into his body — slowly, at first, then in waves once he finally becomes aware of it. He can feel his fingers again… wiggle his toes… his veins no longer flow with ice water instead of blood. Oh, what a _privilege_ it is to feel warm again.

With as much energy as he can summon, he turns his head. There, straight-backed and braced against the arms of her chair, is Sansa.

She does not appear surprised to find him awake; nor does she betray her relief, but Theon knows her too well. Exhaustion weighs down her proud shoulders, smudging dark circles around her eyes, but she has stayed rather than retire to her own chambers. She has stayed all this time for him.

“H-how l—“ he croaks, before breaking off into hoarse, shallow coughs. Sansa moves quickly, bringing a cup of water to his lips before he can disturb the bandages.

The water is such a relief — not too cold, not too bitter. _Perfect._ With a shallow gasp, Theon settles back against the pillow once more, nodding his gratitude for the aid. “How long,” he can finally manage, “has it been?”

Sansa is quiet for a long moment; in that silence, the weight of her exhaustion pushes down, smothering them both. “Three nights,” she replies at last. “The bodies…there are so many…” Her gaze flickers downwards for only a second, then up again, the composed lady once more. “We have many pyres left to build. Yours thankfully will not be among them.”

He’s still processing that fact, himself. Hasn’t quite managed it. Tentatively, Theon raises a hand — and being able to move on his own again is a great sign — and places it gingerly over the bandages. “I’m more surprised than anyone else. When I fell...” he cannot quite finish the sentence. Each second of that awful battle-that-wasn’t replays in his head, as vivid as the heartbeat in which it happened. He still tastes his own fear, sees the Night King’s merciless eyes, feels the spear shatter his armor…

“I know,” Sansa says softly. “I did too.”

Theon’s ragged breaths cut off as quickly as they began. He looks over at her, and is shocked by the sight that greets him —- the Lady of Winterfell with tears in her eyes, looking more vulnerable than he has seen her in a lifetime. Crying over him, he realizes, an unpleasant jolt rippling through his body — more unpleasant than being stabbed, actually. Enough Stark tears have been shed over his actions in the past; Sansa shouldn’t be crying over his death as well, especially considering he didn’t bloody die.

Wordlessly, Theon reaches over and clasps her hand. He yearns to do so much more — to draw her into his arms and reassure her that he is here, she is not alone — but a sharp twinge in his chest assured him that this is a bad idea. Instead, all he can do is lace his fingers with her own, and it must be enough.

Sansa squeezes back. Slowly, they become sure of each other once more.

“Bran,” he says after a moment, desperation stirring beneath the surface of his voice.

“Arya,” Sansa replies, a huff of pride. Theon leans his head back against the pillows and cannot help chuckling, much as it hurts.

“Of course.”

Somehow, they all made it through. Despite all the odds — and whatever Theon believes should have happened, even if he’s so desperately, unexpectedly relieved that it didn’t — they’ve survived to see another day. He has never been happier to be alive than in this moment, with warmth filling him like sweet wine, a spear wound straight through his chest, and his dearest friend watching over him.

If he cannot give his life to protect House Stark, then clearly the gods demand more. Even he has truly atoned for his sins — and Theon is not sure, but he prays, _prays_ that he has — perhaps there are things he may yet do for his family.


End file.
